Parce que si je termine pas ce texte ce soir, je le ferai jamais et que j'aime trop l'idée générale pour le laisser se perdre.

There once was a frame there. A frame with a photograph in it. And it felt like anyone could tell.

The other objects had been moved around and technically, the void had been filled. Sometimes, though, she got the impression that it was still there for everyone to see. It was as if this space had been meant and carved solely for the frame - but it wasn't, no, it wasn't.

Still it felt like no matter how she'd cover it up, any passer-by would know that the frame and the photograph were missing - wrongfully thrown away, burnt to ashes, buried at the foot of the fourth tree from the left - and really belonged there.

At times it felt to her like the concealed void was as clear and visible as the frame had been. Maybe even more so because one could miss the photograph, look at it without truly seeing it - but nobody could ever miss the void.

She had never known if you let objects in a specific position for long enough, space and air settled around them.

A few weeks ago this would have ended here, but if I may add -

Unless, down the line, the photograph and the void never were separate, distinct concepts.